Disagreeable
by Wickfield
Summary: David Copperfield. David and Agnes have their first quarrel over his decision to fight the butcher.


**Written for FanFic100!**

**Disagreeable**

_080. Why?_

* * *

I believe I have made a blunder in my little history, in perpetuating the falsehood that Agnes and I were two happy fairy-children, and never quarreled. In truth, Agnes was of a very quiet and self-possessed disposition, and not much used to betraying any emotion that affected her tender heart; and I was very desirous that I should never offend anyone in any manner, as a result of my boyhood punishments at Mr. Murdstone's cruel hand. But when Agnes was in earnest, and convicted of the rightness of her actions, particularly in the care of someone else, it was difficult to persuade her to alter those convictions. And when I was likewise determined, or affected at all by any maudlin feelings of injured pride or honor, I could be equally steadfast. There were only a few times when we were both so earnest, and placed in opposition, and it was uncomfortable to us both. The first of such quarrels, I recall, involved my infamous battle with the Canterbury butcher.

I have touched upon this incident already, but not without the attention it deserves as an important part of my history. I was, at the time, a swaggering youth of fourteen, who was fast outgrowing his clothes, and neglecting his appearance, and entirely sullen about the whole matter. I had developed a bad habit of assuming every comment spoken about me to be an insult excepting, as always, the gentle admonishments of Agnes Wickfield. She was, by far, the only member of her sex (excepting, I think, my aunt) who had not acted in a way to inspire my disgust for all womanhood and, as such, was the only girl to whom I ever confided anything. I think, at that time, in my concern for manly conduct, she was possibly the only person I confided in at all.

For the past few weeks, on my way home from school with a few fast-formed friends of whom I have since mixed up the names, I had become aware of a certain look directed to me by an apprentice butcher. It was a look of very great disdain, from a very small pair of black eyes - in fact, his head and face reminded me of a ham with cloves stuck into it. I attempted to return the look, and I and my companions walked on.

Some days later, I was again aware of the presence of the butcher. He had a customer with him today, and from down the road I had heard them loudly discussing the merits of a particular breed of Pork, which quite outshone all others in its succulence. When we passed by his shop he said, in a heightened tone, "Of course, there is SOME, as is thickheaded, and could not tell Pork from poultry!" which he intended, and I took, as a most grievous insult. The dark look of the day before passed again between us, but still we boys of Dr. Strong's school passed on.

As always, the third incident, which came several weeks later, was the one that settled the matter. I was in no fine temperament already, for it was a hot May day that brought sweat to my face and neck, and made me long to peel off my coat and shoes and run through the fields. Instead, I was presented with the lovely face of the butcher.

He had a fellow young butcher with him today, and he said nothing at all until I and my company were within earshot, and then he proclaimed, loudly, "There are some swells in this neighborhood – swells of Dr. Strong's – as want a _thrashing, I _think."

I said nothing to this, but I turned to my friends, and made my observations of a certain individual's resemblance to a ham, in a very loud voice. Those statements brought about the effect that is pretty much the logical outcome of calling someone a ham.

He shouted a challenge – would I fight him, then? I did not deign to answer, and would have liked to present the idea that such concerns were far below my much elevated station, but he crossed the street in a heavy plodding way, and proposed I have my block knocked off.

I was by now thoroughly riled and demanded, "Who, sir, would like to do so?"

HE would do so, and very well, on any date of my choosing.

My companions, who had been content to be very quiet and unnoticed unto this point, suggested in a whisper that I (for, apparently, the invitation had not been extended to them) should want to get it over Sooner, rather than Later.

I could think of nothing sooner than that evening. "I shall fight you at six o'clock, at the green, if you like," I said, beginning to tremble. I felt the butcher perceived this, which added to my discomfit.

"Very well, Dr. Strong's boy! Six o'clock at the green outside of town, and you shall die!"

With which foreboding prophecy I made my way, on legs that were beginning to shake a little, back to Mr. Wickfield's house.

-X-

I found Agnes in the parlor, absorbed in a little leather-bound book. She raised her eyes with a smile when she perceived my arrival, but her face fell as she saw my own dark expression.

"Why, dear Trotwood! What has happened?" She quickly pushed her book aside and approached me but (I am ashamed to say) I accepted her concern without much gratitude. I sat down on the sofa, and she sat next to me.

"I am," I said presently, in a magnificent tone, "to fight the butcher." And I waited for her response.

I believe I expected her to faint, or weep, but instead she turned and looked at me very seriously. "What do you say?" she asked, in an agitated tone.

"I said, I am to fight the butcher," I replied, "for insulting my honor."

"Why, what did _he_ say?" she asked, and though I didn't see why it mattered what he said, so long as he insulted my honor, I told her. She was very quiet, and very grave. And then she said, slowly, "Trotwood, you must not fight the butcher."

It was the first time, since I arrived, that Agnes had ever voiced any idea that stood in opposition to mine. But of late I had taken her as my confidant, and in establishing an intimacy between us, which had not been there hitherto, I had encouraged a greater warmth and honesty of feeling than we had shared before. Naturally she felt at greater ease in expressing her apprehension, and in truth she should have, but I did not like it.

"Agnes, there is no question in the matter," I tried to persuade her. "I _will_ fight the butcher, and there's an end to it."

"And I tell you plainly, Trotwood. You must not – you _will_ not – fight him." Her voice was trembling, as mine had done when I was younger, and unused to arguing. Yet I did not spare her, for I believed she felt too much at ease in dictating my behavior. "And why, pray, not?"

"Papa," she said, with great conviction, "is very opposed to bodily violence – indeed, he thinks it foolish and headstrong, and you would be in great disgrace if he were to find out you were fighting. And he would tell your aunt, too."

"I don't see why _he_ should find out, Agnes, as I have only told _you_ about it."

"You have told me, and I have felt it to be ill-done and – and as foolish as papa would think, and so I would not hesitate to tell him, Trotwood." I had suspected she was using a common childhood method of defending an argument by bringing an allied adult into the question, and this statement of Agnes' confirmed my suspicions.

I jumped to my feet. "Why, that is fine, Agnes! Foolish? My honor and pride, foolish!"

"It is not your honor and pride I find foolish," Agnes returned, her voice getting lower as mine rose, as she tried to steady her tone, "although you injure my perception of you with your behavior to me. You have not thought that the butcher is twice your size: that fighting with fists is ungentlemanly, that papa would discover your injuries and so your actions without my help. But I think I give you more credit for caring about such things than you deserve, I think so truly, Trotwood."

I had no good reply for these points, and so I frowned, and there was none of the usual placidity in the uncomfortable look she returned me. "I told you, I shall tell Papa, for he would wish to know and stop you."

"It is unkind of you Agnes!"

"I am not sorry, except that you should be angry with me." And I saw she was trembling, as I had in my confrontation with the butcher, earlier that day, when I had been the weaker party.

There was a frigid silence – it chilled the warmth that had lately developed between us. I ought to have known that Agnes despised arguing, for I had never seen her do it until that time, and so she must have been very moved. But I was young and rash, and wanted her to feel sorry for me and for what she had done to me.

So I stalked away to my room, alone, to await the hour of my duel with the butcher; I supposed she resumed her reading, for I did not so much as turn my head in her direction.

-X-

Six-o-clock came like lightning, and I found myself privately making use of Agnes' intelligence to avoid Mr. Wickfield. I ran into Uriah, and I felt he must have seen Agnes in the interim, for he seemed very desirous to know where I was going at such an hour, and what I was to be doing, and all about it, but I managed to pull away from his pleasant conversation, and to put him out of my mind as I approached the lane leading into the green, our appointed meeting place for battle.

I had spied the butcher's pink face in the distance, as he ran through some exercises preparatory to killing me between what I took to be another butcher and a sweep, his companions – when I heard a cry on the path behind me.

I turned, and who should I see, but Agnes!

She had lately begun turning up her hair, and in her straw bonnet, and fresh white dress passing through the steamy haze rising off the road, she really put me quite out of countenance; in my surprise, I forgot for a moment I was angry with her, so she soon approached me.

"Why, what are you doing here?" I asked. She had a little basket full of mysterious items, and covered with a fresh cloth, on her arm.

"I have not come to say I am sorry," she began, nervously, "for I wish never to be anything but honest with you."

I turned away roughly. "Then I haven't time for conversation."

"Pray, listen. Papa has not come home in time. I wanted to tell him, so he would stop you, since you would not listen to me. But I could not tell him, so he knows nothing – although I think Uriah knows," she added, with a little frown. "So you may be found out yet, Trotwood."

"Why have you come to tell me all this, Agnes?" I asked again, for my impending battle, in which I was to be "killed," seemed very close now, and my previous words were weighing heavy on my conscience.

"I…I see you won't listen to good reason, which is why you have come to fight, but I only care about you Trotwood. And so…well, I brought some provisions, some water to sustain you and some cloth, and there is a beefsteak at home in the larder, which I saw, and which I think will help with your injuries. You will be very badly injured, Trot," she told me, in such an impressive last attempt to persuade me of my folly that I couldn't decide whether to laugh or be offended. But her sincerity, for a moment, made me doubt my course of action – and if not for a sudden taunt bursting from the field, in the butcher's own voice, I might have turned back.

"Agnes, I have gone too far now to go back, and I believe you are right in thinking I will regret it, after all. This is no place for a girl, and your papa would certainly wish you far away from here, but would you mind very much giving me your pocket handkerchief before you go?"

Agnes, who had handed me her little basket, produced this article, and I slipped it in my waistcoat pocket as I explained the tradition of the knights, who used to take a lady's handkerchief into battle with them. Then she kissed my cheek lightly, and began to walk on, hurriedly, down the road, before she stopped, just before she was out of view of the little green.

I have thought, since, that Agnes came after me that day because she was afraid she would lose me – the only friend she had been allowed to have, by what she had said to me; afraid that her words, which she believed with all her heart, and could and would not surrender, would so displease me I would go away. Perhaps that had been her experience thus far – I think she thought it for a long time afterwards, and struggled with it in much the way I observed before me then.

I saw her, standing still up on the hill as I made my way into the valley to begin the fight. She was the first thing I saw when I began the fight, and she was the last thing I saw during the fight, before she exploded into stars, and the world went black.

-X-

Agnes had rightly guessed the effectiveness of the beefsteak, and wept as she applied it to my eye that evening. "Oh Trot," she whispered, "why did you do it?"

"I had to," I gasped out, having entirely forgotten why. Agnes hugged me, and shed a few more silent tears. "I suppose you did – I saw his face, and I thought it looked meaner than it did before, and I am certain he is capable of great insults to you who are so polite. But Trotwood, I lost count of how many times he struck you!"

She turned the beefsteak, and tried to decide where next on my big great bruise of a body to put it to best effect. "And Uriah saw you, so you will be in very great trouble when Papa returns." It was quite true – even in my dazed and half-senseless state, during which the dear girl had tried, staggering under my weight, to lead me unseen into the house, I had heard many shrill and humble concerns when Uriah saw us and eagerly rushed to help her. I supposed, at this point, it really didn't matter. Other things, I knew, mattered more.

I winced as some part of my body, which I had until then been unaware of possessing, burned in pain. I felt the touch of her cool hand there, such a contrast to the blows I had suffered earlier, and which she had warned me against!

"I…I'm sorry, Agnes." I told her then. She looked at me, very troubled, and, having left the steak in my care, wrung some vinegar out of a cloth she held. "I should have listened to your good sense. I know it now."

"I…I only speak out when I feel it would do more harm to remain silent," Agnes replied slowly, with her eyes cast down. I told her I believed her, and she held my hand. "If I ever do speak out, I pray you will listen, Trot, for I will only try to help you, even if others wish to cause you harm."

"Like butchers," I said with regret, and howled as she applied the vinegar to a wound on my arm.

"Or – or anyone twice your size, who puts you in mind of a kind of meat, Trotwood!"

That was the first of many pieces of wisdom I was to gain from the lips of dear Agnes Wickfield!


End file.
